A World Internal
by BitiumRibbon
Summary: [Final Fantasy VI] A series of interludes based on the characters of Final Fantasy VI.
1. Foreword

**A World Internal**

**Foreword**

The segments posted under this title are interludes, focusing individually on the personages of Final Fantasy VI during moments which I feel are important in the makeup of his or her character. Each segment will be written from an inner monologue point of view.

The depictions that you are about to read represent my own interpretation of the character and their thoughts at that moment in time. I'd like to think that my interpretation may differ from yours and allow me to share my perspective. After all, as far as I'm concerned, that's what good writing does.

But I consequently ask that you read with an open mind, and I hope that you enjoy what I have to offer.

My thanks for this piece go to Empress-Eerian-Sadow for the concept (gleaned from **Final Fantasy IV Interludes**), and to Guardian-381 for the inspiration and for his continuing support of my work.

Finally, I will not be including a Celes interlude, for two reasons. Primarily, I would like to avoid one out of respect for the work of Guardian-381 (whose Celes pieces I highly recommend). Secondly, the piece I wrote called **The Seeds of Treason** which examines Celes' betrayal of the Empire serves well enough as an interlude for her that I don't need to include another in my work.

I hope you enjoy these interludes.


	2. Segment I: Cyan Garamonde

_**A World Internal**  
Segment I: Cyan Garamonde_

**ARTIFICE**

I do not know why I did what I did.

It was something as simple as writing a letter, and then another. It was as simple as giving a young woman a reason to keep going. Why, then, is it so difficult to uncover the true motivation that I find myself questioning? How can I be so completely unable to find an answer to the simple question "why?"

The sky is beautiful today. The wispy air of the high mountains is still somehow able to solicit a fresh breath in a body as tired as my own. Perhaps it is the pure beauty held in the atmosphere of the morning that has shut me away in my thoughts. It is different today than most days; it seems to reach into me, as does the need to seek the true words of my soul.

I think of the letter I've written to right my wrongs. It sits on my little table, yet to be sent, a symbol of my cowardice. The letter I have sent in its stead is attached to the leg of a carrier pigeon that I can still see in flight, and holds within it the same professions of love and devotion that I have been writing for the past thirty days. I will someday send my confession, but I find little solace within it. A short letter, one that holds truth and regret, but the truth I seek can't be found in my apology. My written words do not contribute to my understanding of the instinct I chose to follow.

I watch the little bird carry my letter to Lola. It's almost gone now. I feel another stab of regret as I imagine the consequences of sending it, and I suddenly long to call the bird back, but I know it is too late. The bird carries my conscience on its wings; I know it would be better to end the charade I should never have begun. My motivation… it remains a mystery that I still cannot solve.

One might call it fear. I suppose that could be justifiable. Fear may drive a man to do strange things on the advent of a dire hour, and the realms of fear are plentiful. I reflect on it every so often, and I am driven to wonder within which of these realms I found myself that day.

Did I fear isolation? Perhaps.

Did I fear change? Almost certainly.

I am a proud man, but not too proud to admit that I accepted change less than gracefully. I still remember the day Elayne told me that I would become a father. To think of my first reaction to the news, the initial wave of uncertainty, fills me now with embarrassment. Had I only known then what a blessing our son would be... but such is the frailty of my stubborn mind.

I did not know the joy that Owain would bring to my life… our lives. I bow my head as I remember the only son I ever had, and the dear love of his mother upon which he and I thrived. I could not have known back then… and I remember being filled with anxiety at the prospect of an addition to our family, another distraction from my duty to the King. I remember the desire to hold on to the life we already had, and being unable to embrace the possibility of change.

It might seem odd that a man so intimidated by change could find himself fighting alongside a rebel organization in a civil war; rebellion, after all, is often the principal agent of change. Perhaps there's a difference between change and progress... or perhaps the man is less stubborn at heart than he thought he was.

But I suppose that if one fears change, there is a part of him that invariably fears loss. Perhaps his life is simple enough that he fears loss only of the familiarity he knows. I wouldn't presume to call myself so innocent. I have learned that the maintenance of innocence is impossible in a man for whom death is routine. When such a man is haunted by potential loss, his fear is seated far deeper than a concept.

It is a cruel world that will bring to life those inner fears.

I am still haunted in my nightmares by memories of that day. I can still see the wretched poison seeping through the canal, and I can still feel the sickening horror of watching my people – my friends – die one by one. Every night I relive the moment I walked through my chamber door to discover that I no longer had a family... that I no longer had a life… that everything I held dear had been snuffed out in an instant, as if it had never existed at all.

I defy any man to match the utter hopelessness, to breathe but be truly dead.

Perhaps it was then that I began to embrace change. Perhaps it was then that I realized the true necessity of change in a cruel world.

I stare at the clouds as I think about it. I remember growing up; I remember coming to hate everything associated with the evil Empire. I hated wars that killed innocent citizens. I hated their machines… I hated all machines. I look back to my little alcove in the mountain, thinking about the two books I've carefully hidden inside, books about machinery. How strange it is that I've come to embrace even the technology I loathed so much when I was young.

But as I turn back to the cliff, staring at the endless sky where the little pigeon had been only minutes ago, I see the revelation that came upon me as I fought with the Returners. During my time with them, I began to understand that not all machines are as evil as the Empire's Magitek. As uneasy as I may always be around such technology, I realize how blind I have been all these years. I suppose I really did fear change.

It wasn't until the world was reduced to ruin that I truly lost that fear.

It seems strange, I suppose. At a time when the world had lost all hope for the future, I could only see the life that remained. When nobody could let go of the past, it was I who discovered how long I had clung to my own inner demons and abandoned them. It was then, after seeing how the world had changed around me and yet gone on living, that the concept became less threatening. I travelled across the country for a long time. I found Mount Zozo, and the little alcove that had once been somebody's makeshift home. The more I saw of our new world, the more promise I found in its future. By the time I met Lola, it couldn't have been a fear of change that made me do what I did.

But there was still something missing. I remember leaving one obstacle behind and yet still feeling unfulfilled.

My thoughts drift back to the immortal "why". I picture the moment, the day I'd passed through Maranda and caught a glimpse of her, standing outside her house and watching the skies. I see her face again, and I think of all the letters I have been writing in her lover's stead. I remember the compassion, the sympathy I'd felt when I heard about all the messages she sent and the months without word.

Without warning, as I think of Lola's face, I see Elayne.

My heart suddenly feels heavy as I begin to understand… and yet, I understood from the very beginning, from the very first word I wrote. I had thought of Elayne. I suppose that, in one sense, I was writing to her all this time, sending with my letters the flowers I would always craft for her, the ones she loved so.

But I remember the pity I felt for Lola, suffering the same pain I had fought with for nearly a year. Every day of the eleven months that had passed since the end of the world, she had been left without hope, without any promise of a future. I wanted to return that hope to her, to help her learn to once again embrace life as I had.

I recall the first letter I wrote, something hurried and a little careless, sent from the most secretive place I knew: that little alcove at the summit of Mount Zozo. It was the only letter I planned on writing, a short, reassuring message. I remember spending the night there with the intention of departing the following morning, only to find upon the sunrise that she had sent a letter back.

One month of letters, each time telling myself that it was the last, and that I would leave and never return. Thirty days… thirty elaborate lies. Even the flowers… I think about them now and see how appropriate it was to send them to her. Artificial flowers, sent from an artificial person, a symbol of artificial love. An intricate web of well-intentioned deceit.

Artifice.

I think for a long time. I stare out at the horizon. The breeze tosses my hair this way and that. The grass rustles beneath my boots. The sky looms dark and foreboding, the same horrible sky that has haunted the dead world since the day the Statues were moved from their delicate alignment and wrought their vengeance on the inhabitants of their world.

Everything is artifice, I decide. The flowers, and the material from which they were made; the paper that has been transformed into letters, and the ink with which they were written; the man writing them, only a persona created by one woman's desperation and one man's sympathy. A human being lives his life surrounded by the artificial, a world that other humans have both created and destroyed. I suppose that is why I have come to embrace the machines that once filled me with such fear and hatred. They are spawned from the same human capacity for creation from whence have come the flowers I have made, or the sword at my belt. In their own inexplicable form, such machines are, in their own right, works of art.

But I am still left wondering, contemplating the real secret to humanity. How much is there that humanity has created? Can one truly love a memory enough so that the memory becomes real? Can a memory be touched, held, or kissed? Is love a creation of humanity, as artificial as the human world itself?

Perhaps I was right the first time. Perhaps I have suffered from a fear of isolation. Perhaps I have truly felt alone in this elaborate imitation of reality. The world changes, all that is around me changes, and I am left without a life to call my own. Could it be that all I need from this dead world is something to live for?

I realize that I have been chuckling to myself. All this time spent searching, and the answer has been there for me to read in the very letters I have been writing. I will send my confession someday; even something purely artificial, it would seem, can bring light to truths as natural as blood.

Why did I do what I did? Why do I write endlessly to a girl with nothing else to live for? To remind us both of a simple reality, one that stretches to distances beyond the longest journeys, hides in places more remote than the highest summit, and lives on in craft as well as in the craftor's soul:

Nobody is truly alone.


	3. Segment II: Setzer Gabbiani

_**A World Internal**  
Segment II: Setzer Gabbiani  
_  
**CHANCE**

Have I been living by a lie?

I've heard a lot of things about the Empire over the years. I've listened to countless stories based on unfounded rhetoric, enough to make a man's head spin. I travel from place to place, city to city, and everywhere I hear the same thing: evil. The Empire is evil, they say. The Empire is full of murderers. It all goes in one ear and out the other, and I never really questioned whether I should actually be paying attention.

After all, the Empire's the one making the laws. Who am I to mess with the powers that be? No profit in that.

But this time it's different. I don't know what it is. Maybe it's a change in the weather, or maybe there's something about these people that's made the back of my mind stir… or maybe it's because she looks so familiar…

It's a brutal feeling to throw many years' worth of belief into the gutter; much worse, I suppose, if you really hold those beliefs to be your own.

I don't have that problem. I never did. All I know is gambling, taking chances, winning or losing. Belief… belief is for the losers. To believe in something, a part of you has to be sure it's there, convince you that you're not throwing your life and your mind away. That part of me died a long time ago. I can say I believe in the Empire, but that belief isn't my own. It never was.

So why am I doubting myself so much now?

I shake my head. My hair tickles the side of my face, and I brush it away. If she were here… I chuckle softly. If she were here, she'd be laughing at me. I know it.

I remember her laughter. There was so much laughter. She'd laugh as I would tell her stories of my latest win, her eyes shining with as much delight as her mouth would resonate. She'd laugh with glee as we'd soar through the air on the deck of the Blackjack, and toss her wind-swept hair about almost as if she could control the dancing of each strand. She'd laugh with me playfully, teasingly, reminding me every time what a beautiful smile she had.

But the Falcon brought her ambition with it, and suddenly there wasn't laughter anymore.

I stare at my feet. Now isn't the time to be emotional. That's what I tell myself. There isn't any good time to be emotional. Emotions don't matter anymore. The only thing that matters is my ship, and then what I do with it. Every day, my life gets better and better.

And I was going to claim my prize today.

I curse, softly enough so that only I would hear it. Pointless, though, to go to the trouble; the strangers aren't even around me. They're supposedly exploring the ship, but I'm not naïve enough to think that's what they're really doing. They're talking about me, probably about what a greedy pig I am. So what? Who cares what they think? Who cares what anyone thinks?

But despite myself, I stop to think about it. What _about _the prize? What was I hoping to claim? An escape from my perpetual, guilt-free life of solitude? Probably not. There's no better way to live a free life than to be rid of the balls and chains attached to others… those less fortunate than myself.

So what then? What do I hope to accomplish by abducting a famous opera singer and proposing marriage to her? Have I already exhausted life's other options? I shake my head. There's something about Maria – and there's something about Celes – that makes me think twice about the life I've been leading.

I remember the day I first saw Maria. I remember going to see a performance at the Opera House for the very first time, and I remember being awe-struck by her dazzling beauty, her grace and composure, her captivating voice. No, not just her voice, but everything about her was captivating, and I don't understand why. She was pretty, but I remember that she wasn't a classically beautiful woman. Neither is this Celes person.

And come to think of it, _she _wasn't either.

I suppose that must be it. These women… they keep reminding me of her. They make me remember what I felt back then, how I was nearly ready to settle down once and for all.

I sigh again. I can't stop thinking about her. It's been years, and I can't stop going over it in my mind. I wonder if it was really my fault. I remember seeing it in her eyes, the zeal that passed through them as she designed the ship of her dreams, the ship that would take her to the very summit of the sky itself. Everything she knew about airships, about flying, came from me. And yet all the lessons I learned the hard way… she hadn't even begun to learn them. But I remember being powerless to her determination as she designed the Falcon, the ship that carried her to her death.

Was that my fault? Was it wrong for me to encourage her, to race her, to shoot with her like two bullets – one lead and one silver – across a cloudless sky, free beyond the dreams of any man standing on his own two feet? If I hadn't… would she still be alive today?

I haven't been to our hill since.

But I've been to the Opera House, and I've seen Maria, and now Celes, and I wonder where all of this is leading me. Maybe the appearance of these people is fate trying to tell me something. Maybe I have been wrong all this time.

I shake my head fiercely, ridding myself of those thoughts. Since when do I believe in fate? Since when do I believe that everything's pre-determined, that I'm powerless to do anything about it? I know better. Everything's in the luck of the draw.

I look around myself. All the money I've made, everything I've made of myself... the Empire made it all possible. Work as a mercenary pilot can be profitable from time to time, I decide, especially when one is working for the right people. And all this business with the Returners has given me plenty of opportunities to lend a hand – for the proper fee, that is.

But I look around again at all the adornments in the belly of my ship, and I wonder how many were bought with dirty money. I never thought it was possible to get dirty money from the lawmakers, but these people are making me wonder.

Could the Empire be evil? I return to my original thoughts. Perhaps I _have _been living by a lie… trading in lies. Perhaps I judged the situation too quickly, went for the selfish end of the bargain. I suppose I have a reputation for doing that. A somewhat lousy reputation to be stuck with, but I have certainly earned it.

Luck of the draw.

Leaning on the card table, I pound its surface once with my fist. All this thinking and second-guessing is giving me a headache.

If I were to look at it one way, this could all be seen as an elaborate test of loyalty. It is a choice as simple as acknowledging a request for passage to Vector or turning them away from my ship. But then again, I'm not exactly loyal to the Empire to begin with. They have paid me a fortune. I'm loyal to nothing but the money they give me.

I stop to think about that. I remember her… Daryl… I remember her telling me something like that once. She used to think that for the right price, anyone could buy my loyalty. I couldn't deny that, but she knew that I'd always be loyal to her. After all, she was my kindred spirit, someone as eager as I was to soar through the skies like the birds we were always meant to be.

It's not every day you find a girl like that. And I haven't found one since.

I guess that's a symbol of my contempt for fate. Like flying an airship, for example; when things fall, they fall. It's all a matter of chance. That's why I'm a gambler. I live life a day at a time, never knowing what the future is going to bring, and never stopping to care. It's a thrilling feeling, to be pouring one's life into a game without knowing for sure if you'd still have it when you walked away – if you ever walked away, that is. It was chance that brought me my fortune, chance that brought me my Blackjack. It was chance that brought Daryl to me in the first place.

I still remember sitting in on that auction in Jidoor. It was the gambler in me that brought me there. Something interested me – I don't even remember what – and I found myself in a bidding war with her. And I remember catching her eye every so often, and soon it wasn't about the object we were trying to buy. I knew it right then, watching the gleam in her eyes at the gamble, her competitive spirit; I knew she was a woman after my own kind.

I stop, once again, to think. Could that really be called chance? Perhaps there was a reason she was in the auction house that day. Or maybe there was a reason I went there to begin with. I can't even remember what it was that brought me to Jidoor. Does that mean there was more than chance involved? Maybe it's a hint of fate. Maybe I don't remember because I was being guided. Maybe I've been guided all this time.

Now that I think about it, the idea of fate isn't as intimidating as I thought it was. Daryl certainly believed in it. She used to say she was destined to see the stars with her own eyes. Could destiny really be a guide? If so, maybe these people _are_ here for a reason. I return again to the ground my thoughts had tested before: is there something trying to tell me I'm making a mistake? Do I need to be redirected to the path I should be following?

I rest my chin on my clasped hands. It's a puzzle. It's a puzzle I haven't been accosted by before. Or maybe I have, and I've just been too selfish to notice. Could Daryl's death have been a piece of that puzzle? I guess I'll never know now.

But maybe it was. Maybe I need to give a second thought to my definition of success… my definition of happiness. All those years, did I find my happiness in my money? My possessions? Was it through the freedom of flight that I took my pleasure in life?

Or was there more than that? In all the years since the Falcon's last landing, have I ever, even once, been really happy? My heart feels heavy as I think about the possibility that she was all I had – all I ever thought I wanted to have – and I shudder to think about what really happened to me when I lost her.

Maybe that's why I felt that warmth inside me when I went to the Opera House that first time, when I saw Maria… and today, when I saw Celes. Maybe that part of me came back to life, the part I'd been denying for so long to hide how much pain I've felt since.

I hear footsteps, and I look up. They're coming back. From here I can only see Celes and her friend, the one with the bandana. I shake my head, and I stand up. There's no need for them to know. There's no need for anyone to know. Now isn't the time to be idealistic. Now is the time to be realistic. Will my life ever change? Will I bother to set aside the life I've made for myself? My answer: probably not.

But I wonder what brought her here, all the same. I wonder about the conflict between chance and face. And despite all that, I'm sure of one thing as they walk down the steps toward me, something I will never doubt as long as I am able to walk among the clouds…

As long as I live, I will never forget her face.


	4. Segment III: Edgar Roni Figaro

**_A World Internal_**  
_Segment III: Edgar Roni Figaro_

**DUTY**

It is the only thing I can do.

There's a sort of emptiness in that feeling, isn't there? It's as if life has left you with no options. You begin to crawl down a path you would otherwise avoid at all costs, and for what? To appease the cruel twists of fate? No. There must be some sort of personal satisfaction within it, and damned if I know what it is.

Maybe it's because the world has been turned upside-down, but I'm starting to feel both as if anything is possible, and as if nothing is. I feel as if this world has seen everything it ever will, and all that's left is the grand finale.

The question is, what will that finale be? Does it end with this? Does it end with a false identity, the guise of Gerad? I hope not. Someone would probably call me crazy for holding hopes about the future, but hope is all that's left to hang on to in a world ruled by a maniac.

One would think that when the world changed so drastically, a citizen would feel no option but to change with it. Living in a dead world would do something to one's mind, to one's spirit. But the spirit only changes when one allows it to change. The mind doesn't die when one's willpower will not allow it to.

It seems silly when I think about it. Childish. To hold on to life by believing that everything can return to the way it was. It is unrealistic, at the very least.

But then, I have come to a mastery of the unrealistic. I have devised machines that can do and see what human hands and eyes cannot. I rule a kingdom that can hide from its enemies at will. In such a perfectly unorthodox life, nothing should be considered unrealistic. I should have learned a long time ago to expect the unexpected.

I really don't think I learned that lesson until I saw him again.

Someone bumps into me as they walk by. A merchant. A man who leads a far more predictable life than I ever will. I look around myself, and I only see those people: the ones who live and thrive in the horrible monotony of the day to day. I walk slowly among them, around the crowded market port that calls itself Nikeah, and I realize how lucky I should feel to be a part of the unpredictable.

But I can't escape that day. It has been far too long since I've seen any hint of familiarity, but that day brought more than familiarity with it.

I still remember the crispness of the mountain air, the fresh breeze that sent my hair flying this way and that. I remember the weight of the sword at my belt, the comfort and security for which I once relied on the presence of my autocrossbow.

I laugh to myself at that. Turning to a machine - a weapon - for comfort... it must be a warning sign of madness. But I suppose my bow, as faithful as it was, couldn't be considered a companion. It was merely playing its role... filling the void I had carried within me for so many years.

Then I saw him again, and I no longer needed the artificial warmth I found in the cold metal.

It seemed somehow poetic. Just when it seemed that all was lost, he was there. So much larger and so much stronger that I was unable to recognize him until our adversary spoke his name aloud. Where three of us had no hope of matching the warrior's might, he stood alone and triumphed in seconds.

It was the very personification of my years of hope. Everyone told me he would never come back. The world, it seemed, told me I'd never see him again. But with every passing day I clung tighter and tighter to my seemingly vain hope that my brother would return.

It was that day, at the summit of Mt. Kolts, that taught me that hope is never futile. I began on that day to expect the unexpected. Even when fate stole him from me a second time in the fast-moving waters of the Lete River, I knew he would return. One cannot destroy hope, and one cannot oppose fate.

But now...

One year ago, the world was reduced to ruin. One year ago, I saw the faces of my companions for the last time. Now, I am uncertain of what to hope for. When the world itself has died, how can one expect his old life - and those in it - to survive?

Now, I have only my kingdom left to hope for.

So many months spent searching for answers. Even when I learned that my beloved castle was trapped beneath the sands, I was helpless to reach it. Only now, after almost a year, have I found a way to return... and it comes at the cost of my identity.

I laugh again when I think about it. Gerad. My robes aren't Edgar's robes. My hair is not Edgar's hair. For all intents and purposes, my face is no longer my own. It all belongs to Gerad. I have given everything to a man who doesn't exist.

It seems fitting, somehow. I was accused of the same folly back then. All of my worries, my thoughts... my hopes... they were all set aside for a man who might as well not have existed.

But my wish came true then. Perhaps it might now. I seem to thrive on my faith in fiction.

As I wander around the market, I begin to wonder why I've become so dependent on the unreal. I wonder why I'm throwing away my identity in the pursuit of a kingdom that may not have survived. Why have I poured myself into something so potentially futile?

Well, because I have to.

The thought stops me in my tracks. Because I have to? I think about it, and I realize that I'm right. My kingdom, trapped beneath the sands of the desert, unable to surface, possibly unable to survive. I'm throwing my identity to the wind and consorting with criminals, and why? Because I have to.

Further back. The very state of my world was in danger, a terrible power floating in the sky and controlled by a madman. Why did I soar to such dizzying heights, wandering across a continent that floated high above the rest of the Earth of its own accord in order to do... who knew what? Because I had to.

And when he and I saw each other again, after those long years, why did we join forces? Why did we come together with him to continue on a journey of rebellion? Was it really because of our past? Was it really because we were brothers?

No. It was because we had to.

We had a common goal, I realize. We had a common duty to perform, a common enemy to face. Had we met under different circumstances, would things have turned out the same way? No. We would have followed our separate paths; I would have returned to Figaro, and he would have continued his training. It would have been as if nothing had happened at all.

But there was the Empire. It was nothing but our common duty that brought us together, that permitted us to fight side-by-side like the brothers in arms we always should have been. And for that… for that I can consider myself grateful.

I shudder at that thought. Grateful to the Empire? Has this dead world really infected my mind so? Maybe that's just the old void opening up again. Maybe I'm just clinging to any memory I can. I never thought of myself as that type, but when I look back, I'm not sure why. It seems obvious. I've spent my entire life consumed by my past. Why should I be any different now?

But that's what hope is, isn't it?

Or maybe that's what duty is.

I'd always thought of my kingly duties in a very two-dimensional manner. It was bleak, monotonous, stressful. But for all the times I complained about my nobility, I now find myself missing it more than anything else about the old world. For years, I was King Edgar Roni Figaro of my father's kingdom. And now I am nothing but a common criminal by the name of Gerad.

Perhaps Gerad will lead me back to my kingdom.

I look around again. I see a flash of blonde hair… familiar blonde hair. But I turn away. I tell myself not to lose my wits to my imagination. For a while I am tempted to look around once more, but I don't allow myself to. Hope is a rare commodity in the new, ruined world, and I must preserve what hopes I have. A year has passed since the end of the world. My hope has run thin. They belong to Figaro now.

No. That's not right. My hopes aren't guiding me back to my kingdom. I go back because it's what I must do. I go back because there is nothing else to be done but to go back. My kingdom needs me… my kingdom needs its king.

And even if the blonde hair is as true to the familiarity that passed through my mind, I cannot allow myself to be anyone else. I cannot allow the guise of Gerad to fall. If it were to fall, I would lose my chance – perhaps the only one I have – to find my castle and bring it back to the surface. No matter what the cost, I must maintain my false ego. I must return to Figaro.

That is my duty.

But I walk through the market again, stop by a merchant hawking his wares to the public, and lose the battle I've fought with my inner will. Scolding myself repeatedly, I look around again, and search for the familiar blonde hair. I see it, far away, on the other side of the market. I turn, and I nearly wave.

But she turns. She looks right past me. It isn't her. There is no familiarity after all in this dead world. I let loose a sigh, but then wonder why I am disappointed. I should have learned long ago to trust my instincts. I should have understood long ago that hope is fleeting. Perhaps when I saw him again… perhaps that was only chance. Hope… what is there to hope for?

I look back to the merchant and his wares, but my eyes don't really see that upon which I set my gaze. They see nothing but the path that lies before me. The path of my duty… the path of my nobility. I know I can do nothing else but to play this part, to forge this identity. And I know I will do it, whether I really want to or not.

Because that is my duty.


	5. Segment IV: Sabin Rene Figaro

**_A World Internal  
_**_Segment IV: Sabin Rene Figaro_

**STRENGTH**

What am I good for?

I've lost count of how many times I've asked myself that question. I guess everyone wonders every so often what it is they're on this planet to do. I wouldn't know. I'm not an expert in understanding human nature. If I was, maybe I'd understand the evil minds of the Empire a little better.

Although that begs the question: do greed and corruption fall within human nature? Are we really that inherently evil?

I walk the halls of Figaro castle. It's almost like I'm drowning. With every turn I take I release a new cascade of memories, some haunting, some comforting... and every one of them leading my mind to doubt. This is the first time in ten years that I've seen the familiar old stone walls from the inside. This should be a moment I treasure. I should feel happy and secure in this old place, the way I did when I was growing up here.

So why don't I? Why don't I feel safe when I'm here? Why is it that returning to Figaro has left me feeling trapped? And if all these stupid muscles can't help me when I'm feeling at my most vulnerable, why have I spent all this time building them?

Just what _am_ I good for?

I shiver slightly; despite the scorching heat of the desert outside, the hallways of this old castle are unexpectedly cool against my exposed arms. Another feature of the old place I had forgotten these past ten years. Or perhaps the castle has changed more than I have given it credit for. Has my memory truly become so unreliable that I have forgotten what is familiar and what isn't? I would hope not.

Although, be that as it might, there is nothing less familiar about this Figaro than hearing its subjects call Edgar their king.

It struck me as soon as we arrived. When I was young I tried to envision either of us taking our father's place, and I inevitably abandoned the thought each time. To me, at that age, it seemed like nothing more than a potential and distant reality. I would never have imagined what would happen, the way my life would begin to turn. Nor would I have imagined his. And above everything else, I never would have imagined that we could be as distant - as severed - as we have become.

In my own defense, it wasn't as if I had a choice.

I remember that day vividly. The day that he died was the day everything fell apart. That was the night I left to pursue my own freedom and Edgar stayed behind to accept his. I remember almost every detail about it, from the relative chill of the night air to the feel of tears running down my then-slim face. I felt utterly hopeless then, as if everything I had believed in had come crashing down upon me in ruins. It was the first time I conceived that the Empire might not be the beacon of justice that it hails itself to be.

Now there is no doubt in my mind. In my time away from home, I have seen things that will haunt me in my nightmares to my dying day and heard stories that chill me to the bone. The atrocities of the Empire are numberless, its evil measureless. That was why I left. When the Empire murdered my father, they loosed a tiger from a cage within my soul. That was the end of the weak boy I once was. I knew that if I wanted to make the Empire atone for its sins, I would need to become stronger.

I pause at that thought and look at my arms, my chest, my legs. I feel my neck, run a hand through my hair. This body is... a machine. A machine built for war. When did it cease to be human and become engineered in such a way? And when did I permit it to do so?

I think about my brother. I knew I never had his intellect, his innovative gifts, but I always thought I had something - anything - besides my strength. Weak as I might have been, I was always stronger, faster, more agile than he was. It seemed that from the day we were born it would be Edgar that remained in the king's throne. As strange as it feels, he is truly suited to the monarchy I never could have embraced.

But then, what have I done? And I ask myself again, what am I good for?

Ten years. For a decade I immersed myself in my training under Master Duncan and alongside Vargas. Ten years. Were they wasted? Did I spend half of my life fighting to achieve the peak of my strength only to realize that in a battle such as this, one man's strength means nothing?

And yet, I remember what Duncan always used to say. "The difference between victory and defeat, justice and evil, can rest in the hands of many men as easily as it may rest in the hands of one. Never believe that your worth is less than that of another man, or that of a legion, because it is doubt that will then decide your fate for you."

I always used to wonder what he meant by that. Now I think I understand.

I find myself in the throne room. I approach the two great seats upon which used to sit my mother and father. As I stare down upon my father's throne, the silence becomes difficult to bear. "Castle hasn't changed much," I say aloud, though I know that nobody is listening. To hear a voice, even my own, is comforting.

I pause for a moment, and then I walk around and take a seat in the throne. It feels strange, and unfamiliar. I feel as though even my well-built muscles can't match the vastness of the role this chair symbolizes. I look around again. I was right; the castle hasn't changed that much. "And yet," I say, "it's all different. Mom and Dad are gone. Everyone's gone... since that day..."

The sound of my voice echoes across the stone walls. Somehow it helps to hear myself say these things aloud. I've been harbouring them inside myself for so long... and admittedly I have thought of little else. I still remember it vividly. I remember hearing everyone talking, saying things like "he took a turn for the worse," or "there's a chance he might..."

Might what? That's what I thought back then. There's a chance he might what?

I curse aloud, a tear beginning to form in my eye. How could I have been so damnably naïve? Was it really so difficult for me to grasp that my father might be dying? Or did I just not want to believe it? That must have been why. I refuse to believe that I didn't know... that on some level I didn't realize the horrible truth. No, I just didn't let myself accept it until...

Strength. That was what I lacked. Strength of character, enough to understand that tragedies will happen whether we want them to or not, that my father would die no matter how strongly I wanted to believe that he would still be alive and well the next morning. Maybe that's why I left. Maybe that's why I trained so hard to become stronger. Maybe I thought that if my body were to gain enough strength, my mind and my heart would follow.

And then they told me he was dead. I remember vividly what happened after that. I remember screaming, cursing them all, cursing whatever gods there were, calling them liars and telling them they were wrong. They told me... and I didn't have a chance to say goodbye. Not one word of his passing until far too late.

I couldn't tell him I loved him.

I wiped the tear away, but I feel more coming. I remember that I hadn't spoken to my father in a long time. He was angry... I was angry. He wanted me to begin accepting more responsibility for the kingdom, to bear the weight that was my title of prince. I didn't... I couldn't. I don't remember why. Perhaps I was too much of a free spirit, or perhaps I was just afraid. But I remember that for the longest time, he and I didn't exchange a single word.

Perhaps that was why they didn't tell me. Perhaps they thought I didn't care.

But in as few as three words, he could have died content that his sons - both of them - loved him to the bitter end.

I was angry back then. I was always angry. I wanted more than the life of a prince could offer. I suppose I wanted to experience the sensation that was freedom. But my love and my respect for my father never wavered... at least, I don't think it did. And ironically enough, I seemed to be the only one who cared at all that he had died.

The very night it happened, I remember the matron telling us our father's dying wish: that the kingdom be divided between Edgar and I. And I remember how enraged I was that they could think of nothing other than who would ascend to the throne. I was fueled by my anger at them, and at the Empire, the horrible Empire that took my father away from me. Even Edgar, my own brother, even he didn't seem to care.

But then, I suppose we were both distracting ourselves. While I was consumed by my anger, it was more akin to Edgar's soft-spoken nature to merely try and think of something else.

And then, up on the tower. I was still angry... always angry. I was swept up in my dreams of freedom, of a life to call my own. Why was I never the responsible one, the one to see things rationally? I never knew. I still don't know. I didn't know I was even capable of rational thought until I began training with Duncan. But that night I made perhaps the most rational decision I ever had to date.

It was Edgar who decided to settle it with a coin toss.

Such a small symbol. Appropriately enough, emblazoned with my father's likeness. I suppose it was him, in a way, that decided his sons' fate. I remember how it gleamed in the soft glow of the moon as it spun over and over in the air. There are very few details about my past that I remember as vividly as that moment, waiting for the coin to fall back down.

And it was heads. I would choose my own path, free of regret, and Edgar would do the same. That was the last time I ever saw my brother until Vargas--

I shake my head vigourously, wipe a few more tears from my face. Vargas. Duncan. My father and mother. How many more deaths will I have to bear before this madness ends? Will I have to watch my own brother fall under the hand of the Empire?

No, I decide. No. I look once again at my arms. These arms, these muscles... all of them. They have been trained, encouraged, and have grown for a decade, and yet I have scarcely used them to fight for what justice is left in this world. Only now have I begun to fight the enemy I swore to destroy, only now is my strength truly worth having. And with this strength I will keep fighting to protect all that is precious, starting with my brother. As long as I stand, the Figaro family will lose nothing more to the Empire.

And as I clench my fist, swearing to my silent vow, I know the day will come when I honour it.

It's what my father would have wanted.


	6. Segment V: Gau

**_A World Internal  
_**_Segment V: Gau_

**HUMAN******

The animals are running.

He sniffs the air, paws at the soil. He knows that something is amiss, but he does not yet know what. He sits in the sunlight, watching as some more of the animals – his animal friends – run by him in a panic. Seeing this upsets him. He wants to know what scares his animal friends.

He bends forward. The tips of his fingers curl. His knuckles rest upon the ground. His rear is up in the air, preparing for his run. His strong, muscular legs are bent and he has crouched low. He is ready.

He runs. His hands precede his feet, and then his feet precede his hands. He runs with the grace and agility of his animal friends. He is one of them. He is at peace among them. He knows them like he knows nothing else. That is why he will protect them. He will protect them from what has frightened them.

It must be something strange, he knows. He sees a flock of buzzards flying high above the shore near the falling water. Something is there. Something strange is there, to frighten his animals so. He does not know what he will find, but he knows that he will find something, and then he will return to reassure his animal friends that the danger is gone.

He hopes that the danger will be gone.

He reaches the shore. He sees something. Two somethings. He sees two somethings, one with a black mane and one with a yellow mane. And they wear strange furs… he doesn't know where these unfamiliar furs have come from.

They do not move when he approaches. Why do they not move? Are they sleeping? It is not time for sleep – it is only halfway through the lighted day. Why are they sleeping if it is only halfway through the lighted day?

He inches closer to them, examines them. He sniffs at their bodies. They smell like the water, but they smell like something else… they smell like something very familiar, but he doesn't know what it is. And they look like the other creatures in the wooden dens by the coast. They call themselves… humans.

He smells them again. The smell is still familiar. He looks at their legs. They are strong, he sees. He can see that they are as strong as he, perhaps more so. Does this frighten him? Should this frighten him? He looks at his legs. He stands tall, gazing down upon them. He is fearless. He is the master of this field, and he watches over his animal friends. He is strong. He is not afraid.

The one with the blonde mane makes a noise. It is a painful noise, the same noise that he himself makes when he has inhaled too much dust or water. The man with the blonde mane makes this noise several more times. And then the man with the blonde mane rises, looking at his friend.

The boy, the master of the fields, stares down at the man with the blonde mane, who then stands tall, taller than he. The man opens his mouth. Sounds come out. And they are frightening sounds. They are threatening sounds. They are the same sounds that the human creatures make that live in the wooden dens.

He runs.

He runs as fast as he can back to his field, the vastness of his home. The animals were right to be afraid. They have run away from the strange appearance of these two new creatures – humans – and he must do the same for now. He must understand why these new humans have come to his land and what he must do about it.

He sees his favourite tree. He stops next to his favourite tree. He leans against it, the familiar, comforting bark giving him courage. He runs his hands along the tree as he has done so many times before. The tree is just the same as the animals. He must protect the tree as well.

"Uwaoo…" he says out loud. It is not the only sound he knows how to make of the sounds that the humans use. He has learned to speak and understand some of the human words. But he does not like to use them. He uses them when he must, when he is protecting his animals from the human hunters.

"Uwaoo…" he says again. He remembers what it means. It is a greeting. It is what humans say when they see each other. He knows he cannot imitate it correctly. It sounds more like 'hello' than what he can manage. But he tries. He will try when he sees the new humans again. The new humans must be warned. The new humans must not harm his animal friends.

He stands tall and looks out. The day is good. The sun shines brightly, and the birds fly high. He sees hunters on the hunt, and he sees grazers eating from the field. These are his friends. These are all of his animal friends. He protects them. They look up to him. They watch him and know that he is their protector.

His chest swells. He is strong. And he is a fighter. He hunts when he must, and he knows that the animals are repaying him for his service to them. He protects them from the unjust and cruel humans of the wooden dens. He knows his place in his field, his nature.

And he knows that nobody must find his treasure.

In the cave far away he has hidden it. It is his and his alone. He found it and it is his. He treasures it almost as much as he treasures his land, his home. The humans almost found it once, and he had to chase them away.

He sits on the ground. He knows when he cannot chase them away. He can fight two humans. He can fight three humans. But he cannot fight four humans or more. He knows to stay away, to stay safe with the animals when the humans come in packs of four or more. He knows that he will be safe to protect his animals for another day.

He looks at one of his front paws. Again, he wonders why he is not like any of the other animals. They don't have fingers like he does. They don't have toes like he does. They have hooves and paws that are different from his. And they have more fur than he does – they don't need to wear any other furs. But he is as much one of them as he is breathing the same air.

But he can speak the sounds of the humans, and none of the other animals can. Why? Why can he speak like the humans? And why can he stand tall on his rear legs when all the other animals must use all four?

Why can he stand like the humans?

He sees a flock of birds take flight near the human den. Not near enough that animals are in danger from the humans. But he can sense that there is something happening. He can sense that his animals are in danger.

He crouches low and runs again, as fast as he can toward the human den. The wind whistles by, and he feels it flow through his hair. It is the cool before a battle, he decides. Maybe there will be a fight, and maybe there will not. He hopes there will not be. He hopes that his animals are safe.

He comes close enough to see his animals. Wolves are fighting with humans. He sees the humans, looks closely at the humans. One has a blonde mane, and the other has a black mane. It is the humans from before. And the wolves are hurt – the wolves are dying. His heart beats furiously, and a look of anger crosses his face.

The human with the black mane swings at the wolf with a long, silver stick, but the wolf is already dead. He swings again and nearly strikes the boy, the master of the fields. And the boy backs away. He knows he cannot fight such power with nothing. He has learned that he is no match for the humans' long, silver sticks.

He begins to yell. He yells at them, reciting the words he has learned so well, hoping that they understand him enough to stay away. "Go away!" he yells. "You scare animals!!" he yells.

The humans do not move.

He runs.

Again he is running, running away from the frightening humans. The two dead wolves lie on the grass. The long, silver stick has made short work of them. He knows that the wolves are hunters, that the wolves themselves may have been to blame. But he must protect his animal friends, even when they have made mistakes.

How can he fight the long, silver sticks? How can he be any match for the weapons the humans use? He feels that he has run a safe distance, so he sits on the grass and thinks. How can he protect the animals when he can't even protect himself from the scary things the humans have? Maybe his time as protector is nearly over. Maybe it is time for him to step down for a new alpha.

But there is none like him. No other animal is like him. No other animal has his pink skin, his fingers, his toes, or can stand tall like the humans.

Like the humans.

He looks at his hand. He thinks of the hand that held the long, silver stick. He wonders: are they the same?

He runs his hand through his mane of dusty blonde hair. He thinks of the man with the mane of yellow hair, and how he also had no hair on his front legs. He wonders: what does it mean?

Could it be that he is the same as these humans?

Could it be that he is human?

He realizes that he is hungry. He wants to eat. But he cannot bring himself to hunt. If he is human, and he has been hunting… he wonders if the humans hunt for the same reason. He wonders if humans hunt not because they want simply to kill, but because they are hungry.

Humans eat, too.

He looks up. He sees the two humans again. They are coming to him. He wants to run away. Every instinct in his mind is telling him to run far away.

But he does not. He cannot.

Instead, he stands tall, as tall as he can. He knows that the humans have seen him, are coming to him. He does not see the long, silver stick. He looks at their hands… the same as his hands. He looks at their legs… the same as his legs. Their eyes, their snouts, their manes… all the same.

They… the same.

He says another human sound he learned.

"I'm hungry."

The humans do nothing. They stand and look at him, and then look at each other. The boy stands tall and brave. He knows they must have understood him. He hopes that something rewarding may come.

And then the man with the yellow mane pulls out some meat, and throws it to him. And he picks it up, inspecting it, knowing that it is real, that this is the food that the humans have given him. And he knows now that he is… that he must be human. And the animals… his beloved animals… he loves them, but he knows that maybe he must let them go.

Maybe he should become… human.

He bites into the meat.


	7. Segment VI: Locke Cole

**_A World Internal  
_**_Segment VI: Locke Cole_

**ATONEMENT**

The heat in this cavern is incredible.

It's constricting, really. It pushes in on you, makes it hard to breathe. What is it about rare treasures that makes it law for them to be hidden in the most obscure, difficult places to reach?

But that doesn't matter as much now. I've finally found what I've come for… what I've been looking for all these years without even knowing it.

It's warm, the stone. The essence carried within it. Even through my gloves, I can feel the power and energy emanating from it, pulsing within it. It glows red within – the spirit, I know from experience, of the Esper that lost its life.

But this is no ordinary Esper.

I'm in awe, and that's saying something. I'm not often struck dumb. Those people I call my friends – or called my friends, I should say… I don't even know whether any of them are alive now – they know me as someone who makes a never-ending joke out of life, who lives by the creed that anything can have a bright side if you try hard enough to find it. And, well, it's true, I suppose. I do look at life that way. I have to. If I didn't, I'd probably go mad with guilt.

But even someone like me has to take a moment at times like these to appreciate the sheer magnitude that is this world, and how small we all are as we make our way across it.

Not that the world is what it used to be. Even an optimist like me can admit that. I think what I miss most is the water… the deep blue that the ocean used to be, which is now dark and uncomfortable. And the grass… the grass doesn't exist anymore, really, it's all death and decay. Even the desert by Kohlingen seems remorseless compared to what it once was.

Remorseless… an interesting choice of words. Appropriate, I guess, remorse. After all, that's all I've been feeling for years now. I think I may have loved her too much.

Edgar… he told me time and time again that it wasn't my fault, that I couldn't have possibly expected to save her life when it… when it all happened. But I don't believe a word of it. I never should have left her side. Ever. Even if the townsfolk came and tried to drag me from in front of her place by my ears, I shouldn't have left her side. If I hadn't… if I hadn't, I might not even need the stone in my hand.

It's really all I have left to hope for, now that everyone's gone. The Empire no longer exists, and the idea of taking on an insane megalomaniac like Kefka when I'm just one person – just one lowly treasure hunter! – is enough to make me wonder why I was lucky enough to have survived. There are no more returners… Narshe is a wasteland. Everything is different. And until I heard about this… about this stone… I had nothing left to be optimistic about.

And now, after all my searching, after a full year, I've finally found it: the one thing that might bring Rachel back to me.

Ever since the world ended, I've found myself longing for her. Longing even more than I did before, if only to tell her how sorry I am… to tell her that I love her. I realize now that when we were fighting our battle against the Empire, she left my mind. Well, not completely, but more so than now. I didn't think about her as much. In fact, I'd almost managed to move on completely, until…

Until what?

There was something. There was something that made me think about her again, something that put her back into my mind like nothing else. But I can't remember right now what it was. I can't remember.

I think the whole mess started when Arvis called on me to help Terra. But that wasn't it. I remember fighting past the guards, escaping from Narshe, going to Figaro – and that fire… Kefka, you rotten bastard – and then going to the Returners' hideout, finding Sabin, seeing Banon…

It all happened so bloody fast. One minute I was doing reconnaissance work for Edgar, and then the next I was wrapped up in the mystery of the half-Esper Magitek Witch. I never asked for that.

But then again, would I really have done anything differently? Terra, Sabin, and all the rest… would I have changed anything? No. Probably not. And there was Shadow, and Setzer, and…

Celes.

My fingers fumble and I drop the stone as I think about her. Celes. That was it. When I went to South Figaro, when I rescued Celes from her imprisonment and her sentence. That was what did it. That was when I started thinking about… about Rachel again. What was it about Celes that reminded me so much of her?

Maybe it was her spirit. Maybe it was the way she wore her hair, or the way she laughed. But she just… she brought Rachel back to me in ways I hadn't imagined were possible. When we escaped, and she asked me why… why didn't I just tell her the truth then? Why couldn't I have just told her about Rachel and what happened, and told her I didn't want to make the same mistake?

That was the truth, after all. Maybe I wanted to prove myself, maybe I wanted to show myself – and her – that I wasn't just some screw-up, a treasure hunter who couldn't do anything right. That was how it all started. That was all. And that was what made me want to come here, to find… to find this.

But then…

I look at the gleaming surface of the Magicite shard in my hand, running my fingers over it. It's beautiful. Green… green like her eyes. Eyes that could pierce every inch of you, eyes that looked alive with fire whenever she talked, or when we were making plans with the others, and when we were going to Vector—

Wait.

Rachel didn't have green eyes. Celes did.

I hold the Magicite for several moments. I don't move. What does this mean? What have I been feeling? Had I even known…?

More memories of Celes… her banter with Edgar on the way up to defend the Frozen Esper from the Empire… the way she laughed as we travelled to Jidoor, when I said something funny that I can't even remember… how stunningly beautiful she looked in that dress, singing the Aria on stage… that look in her eyes when I thought she had been spying on us, such anger and yet such sadness… and the day she stood by my side as I looked down upon Rachel in her bed, so overcome by my own grief and remorse that I didn't even notice her next to me… and she wasn't looking at Rachel… she was looking at me…

Before I know it, there are tears in my eyes. Now, it's too late. Now, both of them are gone. Celes is gone. I remember her hands slipping out of mine as the Blackjack was ripped apart. Watching her fall… did I see Rachel's face? Even for a split second? Did I see Rachel falling down, away from my outstretched hand?

No.

There was only Celes then. There were no stabs of regret over Rachel, how it was the second time I let a woman I cared for fall away from me, the second time I let her leave my side. There was only the mad screaming in my mind that she was leaving, leaving me forever, and I'd never be able to find her back.

I just didn't know what that screaming meant back then.

I look at the Magicite in my hands once again. It's difficult through eyes that are bleary with tears. The Phoenix… its warmth still spreads through my hands, a very different kind of warmth from the heat in the cavern. The whole of the place is like this: overwhelmingly hot and stuffy. Kind of like the Blackjack, really, only maybe a little less dangerous; monsters are nothing compared to Cyan in a bad temper.

I laugh to myself, a choking, sputtering type of laugh that shakes one or two tears from my eyes into the empty wooden chest. How can I laugh at a time like this? How can I make jokes?

Maybe that's just the way I am, the same as the perpetual guilt I live with.

As I think about that, I remember something Arvis said to me once. We were arguing about my profession. And I remember that Rachel came up, and he said to me, "I don't see how a thief like you can feel so much remorse! Of all people, surely you'd be the first to let the past stay the past!"

But I'm not like the desert. I'm not remorseless. I have too much love in me.

So maybe it's remorse that makes me who I am. Maybe that's why I was fighting so hard against the Empire: to make up for what I did. Or… well, didn't do. Maybe it's all about atonement.

_There's _an interesting word. Atonement.

It seems to fit somehow… all that time I was staying so close to Celes, helping her, trying to protect her, all I thought about was atonement… atoning for what I had not done when I could have, atoning for the loss of the woman I loved. And through all that mask of atonement and remorse, I was blind to what was standing, living and breathing right in front of me.

Another tear falls and I shake my head. It's too late now. I failed Celes like I failed Rachel… but at least, I think, holding the Magicite tighter in my hand, I might be able to bring Rachel back to me. At least then I might have some peace… what little peace is left in this wretched world.

The Magicite in my hand, I stand up and I turn around. I can't believe what I am seeing.

There's Edgar, looking the same as he always did with maybe one or two cuts and scrapes and a bit more sweat; there's Cyan, clad in that same dark armour of his; there's a robed figure I don't even know… I can't even see his face – or hers, maybe – under all those scarves. And there's…

My breath catches. There's Celes. Alive and well, watching me curiously, trying to see what I'm holding in my hand, but her eyes… those ferocious green eyes… she tries to hide it, but I can see what's in that emerald fire as clearly as though it were written on her perfect face.

And out of all the thoughts that run through my head, only one comes to the forefront, reassuring me that I was myself, that my head was clearer than it ever had been:

_Not one Goddamned scratch on her, anywhere. She really is a general._

I grin as I leave the little wooden chest behind and carry the Phoenix to my future.


End file.
